


Take One For the Team

by starlighteterna



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst, Guilt, M/M, Suicide Attempt, This isn't a happy fic, Torture, babies in pain, but only kind of, but still be warned, if that makes sense, kink meme fill, not with the intent to die, reference to past suicide attempt, we thought we were gonna die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:52:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlighteterna/pseuds/starlighteterna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt at the Avengers Kink Meme</p>
<p>'Somehow or another, the Hulk is suppressed, leaving Bruce all Bruce-y and taking away the Avenger's heaviest hitter. </p>
<p>Which would be OK with Bruce, except for the fact that it happens right before/during a fight against a nasty enemy where the Hulk is the only thing standing between the Avengers and defeat/horrible death. He needs to get the Hulk out, and quick.</p>
<p>So he manages to get hold of a gun, and shoots himself in the head to do it. </p>
<p>Desperate times, desperate measures, you know how it goes.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hell in a Hand Basket

**Author's Note:**

> Please please please have a look at the warnings, this could be triggering in like 2 chapters

Things are already going to hell by the time Bruce arrives at the scene. 

Everyone’s a little worse for wear, there have been five separate attacks in as many days and it’s beginning to take its toll. Bruce is exhausted, hasn’t shaved in days, and can’t remember the last time he choked down more than a pop tart before passing out. But, of course, most of his injuries are soaked up by the Other Guy and he saves his worry for his teammates. His very absent teammates.

His com is completely silent.

The call had come in an hour ago and Bruce had been the only one not at the Tower. SHEILD had, ironically, been giving him a medical evaluation after having turned into the Hulk for five consecutive days and fighting literally until he dropped. They had detained him as long as they could, hoping the rest of the Avengers team would handle the problem, but once it became abundantly clear that they needed backup, Bruce was finally released. 

The battle field is a mess and shockingly empty. Every time they have these massive showdowns the none too bright members of New York come flocking to the scene, snapping photos and trying to get an up-close view of the action. But there are no excited whispers into cell phones, no snapping cameras. The only sound Bruce hears is the too-fast pounding of his own heart. He walks closer to one of the many leveled buildings, wondering what monstrosity other than the Other Guy could have brought down an entire skyscraper, much less ten or more. 

The bright red of freshly spilled blood catches his eyes and suddenly Bruce feels cold. So much blood, like the building themselves were gushing from their arteries. His stomach pitches, he’s found their local cheering squad. Bruce is a man of science, not of religion, but the fevered manta in his head, ‘let my team be alive,’ may as well have been prayer.  
Panting hard, and with slightly blurred vision, Bruce half-runs further into the destruction, trying to stay calm as he desperately searches for his team. There’s no way his team is dead, they’ve fought impossible enemies at impossible odds and triumphed. Dying here would be a mockery of their lives, an anticlimactic farce of an end to their hard fought existence. They couldn’t be dead, Bruce wouldn’t allow it. 

The sound of a respulsor blast nearby nearly brings Bruce to his knees. The Iron Man armor wobbles by in the air and fires a second repulsor blast at a limping hunk of fur in the distance. Bruce can’t remember the last time he felt such relief, his breath leaves him with a soft sound and he feels impossibly light. Of course, then he notices that the suit is sparking dangerously from a cluster of exposed wires on the left side, and if Tony had let the suit get in such a state Bruce suspects the man inside isn’t faring much better. The armor is always Tony’s first priority, before eating, sleeping or any other tasks he considered too mundane for immediate attention. If there hadn’t been time for Tony to make the necessary repairs to the suit between battles this week, then there was exactly no chance that he’d taken care of himself. No one ever accused Tony Stark of having his priorities in order, after all. 

He rifles through his memories of the past week and almost hysterically realizes he hasn’t actually seen Tony outside of battle. Hasn’t brought him any food or forced him to bed. All at once, nausea rises in his throat, Tony hadn’t eaten or been to the bed they shared and Bruce had been too wrapped up in his own exhaustion to even notice. At least he got to sleep after the Other Guy let him take back control, Tony immediately went to SHEILD for debriefing, which was normally Steve and Fury yelling at him for something, and then to talk to reporters. Bruce’s negligence and the shallow, hateful questions from too many nosy reporters could very well have cost Tony his life. Steve and Coulson could just as easily have taken turns handling the press while Bruce handled Tony. He could have told Fury to let the debriefings wait a few days so they could all get some sleep, could have lured Tony to bed with kisses and quick hands and kept him there with handcuffs if he had to, in fact he has a set just for that. No one but Bruce would even have noticed until Tony finally worked himself to death. He shakes his head, shoving that thought back as far as he can, and resolves to be better about it in the future, if they make it out of this particular circle of hell alive. 

Jaw set and self-loathing quickly turning into murderous rage, Bruce strides into the fray, trying to get a feel for what they’re up against before he hulks out. He catches sight of an arrow buried nearly to the feathers in the face of the first enemy he’s seen. It looks remarkably like a teenage mutant ninja turtle with tentacles, covered in scales and armed with more weapons than the average SHEILD agent. It seems to have evolved without eyelids, so even in death the deep blue eyes are on full display. He sees nothing but malice there and fights back a shiver as he moves forward and tries not to think too hard about what it is. It doesn’t matter now, all that matters is getting them all out alive.  
He does let himself wonder how Hawkeye is shooting arrows when Bruce knows he broke his bow earlier in the Week from Hell, though. Clint could be a real snob about bows, and while Bruce was prepared to admit Coulson was damn close to having magical powers, he doubts that even Coulson could find a bow meeting Clint’s standards so quickly, which most likely meant the situation was dire enough for Clint to suck it up. Bruce immediately stop thinking about that, too.

As he moves forward, even though Bruce can’t see the others, he starts hearing them over the coms. The connection is staticky at first, which is odd because Tony designed these himself, but then the sound hits him full force. A magic force field then, fantastic. Sometimes, Bruce really hates magic. He sighs and adds that to his absurdly long list of things not to think about and focuses on his team instead. The other Avengers are breathing harder than normal, lacking the banter that he usually finds both irritating and strangely comforting before he inevitably hulks out on missions. It’s like having a support system chattering away, but more importantly it always reminds Bruce what he’s fighting for. They’re his anchor even after he gives in to the rage. He thinks the Hulk likes the reminder too. His heart is pounding again, and he wipes his hands twice on his pants. How long has it been since he last felt so alone?

Bruce presses his fingers to the earpiece and has to swallow twice before speaking, because no matter how many James Bond movies Tony forces them to watch, he always forgets that it isn’t really necessary. “Banner here.”

Tony makes a relieved noise down the line, “Hi, honey, so glad you could make it to work today. As you can see, we’re having a bit of a pest control problem.” The jibe is halfhearted and Tony sounds utterly exhausted, confirming all of Bruce’s fears at once.

“What are these things?”

“Ugly.”

Bruce rolls his eyes and tries not to feel absurdly relieved that Tony’s cracking jokes. “Oh, that was helpful. Thank you for that.”

“You know how I live to please. Well, live to be pleased, really. But I am all for mutual pleasure.” 

“It’s definitely your best feature.”

“I would have thought that was my money. Yours is definitely your tongue.”

Bruce waits in vain for the sexual description to follow, but all he hears is someone giving a pained noise and then silence. He shuffles his feet nervously and wipes damp hands on his pants again. All this worry is exhausting him and eclipsing his anger. He digs deep and pulls his constant source of rage to the surface before asking the next question he’s dreading the answer to. “Tony,” he begins slowly, still futilely scouring the field, “where is everyone else?”

“Excellent question, Doctor Banner.” The voice echoes both through the com and from above, amplifying the piercing shrillness. Miraculously suppressing a wince, Bruce raises his head and feels his eyes bleed green from the shot of pure rage that rips through him. The woman herself shouldn’t have been terrifying so much as an affront to nature. Her long dress was made entirely of furs and skin; every Earth pelt he could imagine as well as several that he assumed were from places he had only ever dreamed of before he knew better. She had Hawkeye slung over one shoulder, unconscious, and one hand tangled in Natasha’s hair, holding her an arm’s length away and keeping her off her feet. “I am Artemis, Goddess of the hunt.” She giggled, high pitch and childish, a sharp contrast to her long dark pigtails and clawed red fingernails. “Really, though, I’m more of a collector. And you, Doctor Banner, are going to be next in my collection of creatures. I am certain that I will be much more adept at controlling your glorious green gift than you have ever been.” 

‘Glorious green gift’ she cannot be serious. Bruce wants to roll his eyes over another psychopath wanting their hands on the hulk, thinking they could ‘control the beast’, but the sight of his injured friends has rage bubbling up inside him too quickly, eating away the irritation and leaving nothing but white hot fury. His pulse skyrockets and his shirt tears up the front as he gnashes his teeth together and promises this witch a slow, painful demise. It’s usually easy to let the rage take over; let it wash him towards what he really wants, but this time it’s tempered with malice and Bruce feels more dirty than pure.

He doesn’t notice the creature coming up behind him halfway through the transformation until he feels the powder being shoved into his face, a long red hand stretching around from behind to grind the grainy mixture into his nose and mouth. He inhales purely on instinct and swiftly turns, half transformed, to knock the furry creature three feet into the concrete sidewalk. Chest heaving and heart racing, Bruce tries to focus, but all at once, his rage seeps out of him, inaccessible. He grasps for it, but he can’t quite reach the feeling and it leaves him feeling strangely empty and not at all as good as he had ever dared to hope. He roars, but it isn’t the strong, terrifying roar of the hulk, only the pathetic irritation of a man. After a few more seconds the reverse transformation finishes. There is no hulk, only Bruce Banner.


	2. Desperate Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get even worse when Bruce finally sees his teammates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the warnings for this one! Serious Suicide warnings.

Cruel and delighted laughter rips through Bruce’s com and sounds from above simultaneously. He doesn’t wince away from the piercing sound, can’t do anything but stare in shock at the pavement. Everything feels slow and heavy, like he’s submerged in ice water. With an effort that leaves his heart pounding, he tips his head up to look at the madwoman standing on top of the building before him. On the one hand he is struck silent by awe; he has tried for so long to suppress the Hulk and this insane witch has managed more than he ever could. On the other hand he feels terror sliding down his spine like so much ice, literally leaving him shaking with small full-body tremors. 

“Is that it, then? No tricks? No passionate declaration about saving your friends? They said this would be a challenge, but you? You’re just pathetic. There’s not even a fight left in you, is there? You’re so finished with this life, beaten down by the majesty of this gift that you could never understand.” Her voice is an odd mix of condescension and pity, Bruce wants to tell her she’s wrong but the words stick in his throat. Hadn’t he just wanted to be done before? More than once, even. His hands tremble with the weight of that particular memory and the taste of copper rises in his throat. He can’t even look up at her anymore. 

Artemis laughs again, using the hand not fisted in Natasha’s hair to pull Hawkeye’s unconscious body off her shoulder and toss him a few feet to the side like an old shrug. Twisting her fingers tightly in Natasha’s hair to force her head back, Artemis bends down and licks a line up her cheek. “You don’t go anywhere now, feisty girl; I think I’ll keep you. You know how to put up a fight a girl can appreciate.” Nat managed to sink her teeth in the side of the bitch’s face and Bruce almost manages a ghost of a smile. Artemis only laughs that terrible laugh again and pauses to wipe the blood from her cheek before throwing the Black Widow by her hair towards her unconscious teammate. Natasha gives her a look that promises a slow and painful death before moving to check on Clint, never taking her murderous gaze of Artemis, whose gaze is once again locked on Bruce. Suddenly he doesn’t feel like smiling anymore. “Well, maybe you just need a little more incentive.”

“Tony,” Bruce presses his index finger to his ear, trying to keep his voice steady and calm even as it cracks, “she has Clint and Nat. We need backup or reinforcements or something.” Trying to calm the rapid thundering of his heart, he takes a deep breath and tries to calmly grab at the rage that has been his constant companion for so long. Nothing. Not even a flicker of irritation anymore. “Anything, Tony. Anything that can help us.” This time his voice really does crack.

“Tony, Tony help me. Tony I’m useless again. Toooony.” Artemis mocks him in falsetto, waving her hands around without dislodging any of the animal pelts precariously sitting on her shoulders. She’s paced all the way to the edge of the building and he can see her snake skin boots when she swings a leg up on the ledge like the captain of some fantastical cruise ship. “I’m sorry, dearest, but on one is coming to help you. You see, I’ve won.” She smiles and it is nothing but cruelty, her eyes alight with victory. Bile rises in his throat. “But in the interest of fairness, is this what you’re looking for?” 

Bruce doesn’t have time to blink, much less react as a red blur smashes into the pavement at a velocity he isn’t sure Tony could possibly survive. For a second, Bruce’s brain refuses to compute the sight of the armor, sunk a full foot into solid concrete. None of the limbs are twisted, though one gauntleted hand is flung up over the side of the man-sized crater and the eyes of the helmet are completely dark. It looks like a perfect cement grave. Never let it be said that Bruce Banner isn’t a good man in a storm, but for a moment freezes, heart nearly stopping to become just a dead weight pulling in his chest. 

After what feels like eternity Bruce somehow manages to wobble forward and falls hard to his knees next to Tony. He runs a trembling hand over the mask and tugs at it lightly but it refuses to move, refuses to give him this one last gift of seeing Tony breathing. He can’t remember his access codes, numbers and greek words flash through his mind but his mouth is drier than the desert and his brain refuses to make any sense. His eyes burn and he leaves his hand on the side of the faceplate, trying to feel the man beneath even as he checks the suit for wounds. The suit has more than one hole with human flesh showing, oozing blood. Wires are exposed against the cuts and Bruce prays for a great many things, but doesn’t dare touch. He isn’t a medical doctor and he sure as hell isn’t prepared for this, but he knows the dents in the chest plate must have broken more than a few ribs. It looks like Tony’s entire chest has been caved in. He still isn’t moving and now Bruce’s eyes are definitely burning. Not Tony, anyone but Tony. He collapses forward with his head on the armor’s shoulder and digs deep into his overwhelming sorrow, but the rage remains elusive. 

Everything he was living for is laid dead at his feet. His repentance for all the Hulk had done died with his ability to fight evil. His friends were all dead or worse by the look of it. The first person who had ever treated him as anything but a dangerous pariah was cold beneath his hands. No heartbeat, no thrumming suit. He’s not sure he wants this life anymore. Of course, life wasn’t quite ready to let him go without one last kick in the teeth. 

“Or maybe these?” Artemis trills like absolutely nothing horrific is happening, like Bruce is a small child who has lost his favorite toy and she’s the kind adult helping him find it. Something that looks like a cross between a shark and a bear moves from the shadows on his left, seemingly appearing from nowhere. It’s massive, easily larger than any bear Bruce has ever heard of. It stands on two legs, covered primarily in scales, but with patches of fur breaking through like grass through cement. When it grins at him, Bruce can see it certainly has a shark’s teeth stuck in the bear’s maw. It doesn’t even have a scratch on it, and Bruce can see the blood matting its fur, he knows it isn’t the beasts. The creature forces Steve to his knees with a meaty clawed hand on his head, claws biting through soft human skin and sending rivulets of blood down his cheeks and nose. Steve looks worse than Bruce can ever remember seeing him. His suit has three parallel slashes through the chest and Bruce is pretty sure he sees the white of Steve’s ribs poking through in more than one location. One of his arms is bent at a sickening angle and his left eye is swollen shut. His breathing is wet and after a few seconds Bruce can see blood bubbling from his mouth. The creature has Steve’s obviously broken arm in its free paw and gives it a cruel twist. Steve doesn’t make a sound, only closes his eyes with the pain. Bruce wonders if Steve will ever get a chance to heal all of those injuries. He is still staring at Steve in horror when he hears the sharp thud of skull on asphalt to his left.

Thor puts up more of a struggle, but even his mighty fighting spirit has almost run its course. His weak protests are uncoordinated and sluggish, like he’s been drugged, or sustained an incredible amount of head trauma. He’s being held fast by two animals larger than elephants, covered in porcupine spikes with large, hunched shoulders that form a dome shape, but standing on two legs. Bruce can see that the spikes has been sewn into their fleshy backs, grotesquely reminiscent of Frankenstein’s monster. Both have beaks for faces, and their eyes are hidden. Bruce squints and realizes that they don’t have eyes at all, only gaping holes where eyes would have been before being carved from their skulls. The only real difference is that the one to Thor’s left is grey and the other is brown. Their beaks are coated in dried blood, and their facial feathers are singed in messy patches around their missing eyes. 

Bruce squints and catches sight of powder remains circling his mouth and the bottom of Thor’s nose. He looks back to Steve and sees the same residue on his face. Not head trauma, at least, just some sort of magical witch drug. Thor doesn’t look much better than Steve; he is completely missing his cape and Mjolnir. Bruce can see the mess that used to be his hands, fingers broken and twisted, palms burned. His hair is matted with blood and his armor seems to have been ripped from his back, the torn remains hanging around his hips and falling from his shoulders. Bruce really doesn’t want to see Thor’s back, he’s never seen Thor’s cape come off in all the time they have fought together. He really hopes that he is imagining the sudden smell of still-burning flesh. 

Still, Bruce can’t help but feel a tiny thrill of relief in his chest that at least some of his teammates are alive. They’ve been through hell but together they can almost certainly get out of this. He looks at Steve’s broken shield arm and Thor’s mauled fingers and hopes that they’re all going to want what comes after. 

“Well, Bruce Banner, are you angry now? Come on! Show me some of this infamous rage! Give me a fight you pathetic animal!” The shrieking laugh is a sound Bruce knows would haunt his nightmares if he had any chance of making it out of this alive. “Or are you broken so quickly?” That same mix of pity and condescension from earlier shoots a thrill of fear up his spine. “How about a little more motivation?” She snaps her fingers, the sound like a gunshot to his chest. 

On cue, one of the quilled creatures jams a spiked arm straight into the wound Bruce knows must be on Thor’s back. To his credit, Thor only yells out in pain for a few seconds, going limp in their hold but still conscious, breathing hard and wincing as his heaving pants pull his at the mess that is his back. Bruce cannot bring himself to look when he hears Steve scream out in pain, seconds after Thor. His shoulders hunch and he drops his head. He is a fool. They will never make it out of this alive. 

He tries. Eyes screwed shut and fists curled hard around the metal of the Iron Man armor, he tries harder than he has ever tried to do anything in all his years of life. Tries harder than when he spent so many sleepless nights searching for the super soldier serum, harder than he had tried to save Betty. For the first time in his life, Bruce begs the Hulk to come and help him, begs his rage to take over and save the only real family he has ever had. He can feel the echoing roars of the Hulk and reaches out in his mind, fighting hard against the barrier between him and salvation for them all. The wall gives, just a fraction and he roars in time with the Hulk, willing the rage to wash over him. 

His eyes don’t even change color. He isn’t roaring, he’s screaming and his throat is raw with it.

Bruce had never felt so helpless. Well, once. Once. His heartbeat slows and his entire body goes numb with what he has to do now. She’s taunting him again, but he can’t make out any of her words. All he hears is white noise, a ringing in his hears heralding his determination. Slowly, he raises a hand and tears the com out of his ear before dropping it on the ground. He can’t bear to have her voice in his head anymore. He takes a few slow, deep breaths and tried to quell his rising desperation. There is a way out of this. There is always a way out. There is always that way out. Carefully, without raising his head and giving no indication of doing so, he looks around and tries to formulate some kind of strategy. He can do this, his family’s life is on the line and he has to. And they are, aren’t they? His own ragtag band of brothers. Also Natasha. 

He looks back towards the Iron Man armor once more, wishing he could explain. Tony won’t ever forgive him if this doesn’t work. Then again, if it doesn’t work, Bruce won’t know, will he? He slowly walks back to the first monstrosity, taking only a second to select a weapon similar enough to an Earth gun from the impressive arsenal it had been carrying. 

It’s heavy in his hand, cold. It feels like determination and the promise of failure, of losing himself. 

“There is more than one way,” Somehow his voice is steady, strong even. He turns and looks dead into Artemis’ eyes, far away as she is on that building, “to become the Hulk.” He pulls the trigger and the pain in his foot is so severe he nearly loses consciousness. Bruce can’t remember the last time he felt so much pain. The Other Guy never let him feel pain anymore, anything more severe than a paper cut and he was waking up hours later without pants. The Hulk should have come out; he should have stopped the pain. Why won’t he stop the pain? Bruce sits hard on the ground and takes deep breaths as his nerves reacquaint themselves with intense pain. He’s shaking, even as he begins to adjust. At least, he hopes his pain tolerance is just above average now and that’s why the pain feels far away. More realistically, it’s probably the shock setting in. Tears well in his eyes, it’s over, well and truly over. They’re going to die here like dogs in the street and it’s all his fault. 

She’s cackling again, roaring with it, the sure sound of a woman who has won everything and intends to thoroughly enjoy it. Bruce stares numbly at the ground. He thinks of everything and of nothing, waits for his life to flash before his eyes and feels relieved when it doesn’t. His life hadn’t been all that great until recently anyway. He raises his head, but to look at Natasha, not that demon woman. Nat’s crouched, helping a mostly conscious Clint sit up. Clint’s alive. Everyone but Tony then. The pain of it claws at his throat and he wants to scream but the weight of his despair holds him fast. Nat meets his eyes and he sees determination there, rage, and realizes that she will fight to the death. And it will be her death. Artemis will kill them all and take the Hulk as his prize. Once again, Bruce knows his inadequacy will hurt everyone he loves. But Artemis had been right about one thing, Natasha Romanov would give her the fight of her life. She wouldn’t stop fighting until her last breath. So what was he doing, sitting here helplessly? 

He looks to Thor next; nearly limp in the arms of his captors. His back is steadily dripping blood onto the concrete beneath him. But as if drawn by instinct, Thor lifts his head and they meet eyes. There Bruce sees the same thing; Thor is prepared to fight to the very last. He will not die here like a dog. He will die here like the warrior he is.

Steve is crouched on the ground, breathing hard and sending blood running down his chin with every exhale. Each breath must be agony with his ribs so broken and his lungs filling with blood. In his gaze Bruce finds reassurance. Cap nods and Bruce realizes that he really believes that they can still win this. They can’t. Bruce isn’t so naïve and he doesn’t understand how they are so sure they’ll make it out of this hell alive. 

Finally, he looks at Tony. His best friend, and quite possibly the love of his life, is still unconscious, but Bruce is pretty sure he sees blood draining from the slits in the suit. Tony. Bruce stares for another minute, because if Tony moves, if Tony can just be alive then Bruce can do it. One twitch from that armor and Bruce will find a way to win this or die trying. Nothing. The numbness washes back over him, comforting him like a cold blanket on his soul. He still has to do this and tries to take comfort in the fact that Tony will never know, because there is that one last option, and he’s going to take it. 

Slowly, but with steady hands, Bruce raises the gun to his face. He grips it with two hands, certain that this is the only way. His one last chance. Of course, if this doesn’t work he’ll be killing them with this shot too. There’s no way Artemis won’t kill them purely out of spite. His hands tremble. Shooting his foot hadn’t worked, anger hadn’t worked. Would this? Did it matter? He remembers telling them ‘I got low’. He does feel low this time, but he also feels determined. He doesn’t want to die; he isn’t ready to give up quite yet, not when his team still believes in him. 

The hope in their eyes, their fighting spirit. 

He opens his mouth. 

It’s for his family, but he can’t look at them, not when he’s about to do this. Last time it was selfishness that drove him to this, but now he knows that if anything is going to work it will be this. His one last chance to save the people he loves more than anything in the world. 

He has a home to go back to and a family to protect; he has to make it out of this alive. But, if he can’t, then maybe they will.

He looks back over at Tony, just to see him one last time. Bruce can barely see his head over the edge of his shallow grave, but he can see that Tony’s face is turned and the faceplate is missing, clutched tightly in the hand that had been thrown over the side of the crater. Alive. OhthankyouGod, Tony’s alive. Bruce’s shoulders sag in relief and he meets Tony’s eyes, his terrified, helpless eyes. Bruce tries to convey everything in that look, his love, the absurd gratefulness he feels that Tony accepted him. He’s ready. If he can just save Tony then maybe his meaningless life can finally be worth something. 

He slides the barrel into his mouth with steady hands.

‘No,’ Tony mouths. 

Bruce closes his eyes and pulls the trigger.


	3. The Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony is really confused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys :) Sorry about that cliff hanger, I hope this makes up for it!

They say that before you die your life flashes before your eyes. 

Tony Stark, having nearly died on many a stupid campaign and one memorable terrorist abduction, can attest to this. He’s seen every alcohol soaked moment of his past so many times that the thought of having to relive the events yet again is nearly incentive enough to create immortality. His life is one huge cosmic joke and he doesn’t need it replayed in HD every couple of weeks when he gets nightmares of the highlights most nights. 

No one ever tells you that when you are forced to watch someone you love die your life with them flashes before your eyes. What was, what could have been, all the stupid plans for stretchy purple shorts or a metal alloy stronger than adamantium but more pliable than Jell-O. 

Tony doesn’t even like plans. Everything he creates is on a whim brought on by sleep deprivation and caffeine, or hostile takeovers. But being trapped in what he would once have called his greatest creation, unable to twitch a finger and staring helplessly at Bruce, Tony realizes he does have plans. A lot of plans. Really dumb plans like cold pizza over test tubes, a constant marathon of the cheesiest movies of the past few decades, finally being able to stand going to charity functions because he would have someone there who loved him for who he was and not his money. Small plans. Plans that should have been inconsequential. But for a moment, Tony sees his life without them and his already crappy heart stops. 

A terrible, strangled noise bubbles wetly up from his nearly crushed chest as Bruce falls backwards, a sharp counterpoint to the screaming fury from somewhere behind him as the baddie of the day realizes she’s been foiled. The sound of her screeching fades to a harsh ringing in his ears. For a moment he feels weightless, like he’s a ghost watching some horrific tragedy happen to someone else. Because, this can’t be real. He doesn’t understand. Why? Why would Bruce do this? They had been just bantering and everything had been so great. It was all shared grilled cheese sandwiches over talks of science at four in the morning, cuddling during cheesy movies, and really, really great sex. Slow, sweet sex even though there was always the possibility of Bruce hulking out and ripping Tony to shreds at any second. Tony had done everything for him. He hadn’t had a drink in months, he ate breakfast, he’d found that tea Bruce liked so much, hell he was even picking fewer fights with Fury. He had literally done everything Bruce had ever asked of him, had busted his ass to keep the army at bay and the PR positive. He would have sworn they were happy. It was damn sure the happiest he had ever been. 

So why had Bruce just blasted off the back of his skull? 

Was he not enough? Was being with Tony so painful for Bruce that he would actually rather shoot himself in the face than be with him?  
“Bruce.” The air drags against his parched throat and Tony slowly levers himself up onto one elbow. Spots fly in front of his eyes and his lungs burn when he gasps in a breath from the agony. He hasn’t been in so much pain since waking up in a dark cave with his heart jacked up to a car battery. Blood drips out the bottom of the suit, too much like orange juice being squeezed straight from the source. It sure feels like he’s being wrung out. His vision cuts out and he plummets back to the ground, scratching his exposed face on the concrete. He lies still for a second, chest heaving, every beat of his heart pure anguish, eyes still fixed on Bruce. Eyes burning and body heavier than lead he just wants to sleep. He’s so confused and hurt and even remaining conscious is just too much. 

Bruce doesn’t want him anyway.

It’s not like he’ll know though, so Tony twists his abdomen to push up on his hand and hears the blood slough out of the suit. He doesn’t stop.

It’s a slow, horrible process, and Tony keeps his foggy eyes glued to Bruce’s unnaturally still form, ignoring the dark puddle spreading out behind his head like the most macabre halo. Minutes pass before he finally hauls himself onto his knees and slowly makes his way to Bruce, his broken suit digging deep gashes into his palms and legs. He’s not sure how much more blood he can lose, his brain offers a calculation but it’s hazy and numbers are too hard when he hurts this badly. He’s only a few feet away when his arms start shaking so badly they give out. The ground is cool on his face though and he could just stay there. They’re all probably going to die anyway. 

“NO!” Only now does he hear Thor yell out his protest. Without opening his eyes, Tony knows the God’s will to fight has been renewed. He can hear the sickening sounds of fist on creature face, the hum of Mjolnir, and a thud that he suspects is Mjolnir being dropped very quickly.

Tony distractedly wishes he cared more whether or not Thor’s rage would be enough.

A loud squelch, the smell of burning, and a heavy thud later and Tony knows hope is well and truly lost. He finally opens his eyes though and sees Bruce’s sleeping form. Why is he sleeping here? Tony’s tired too though, they should sleep together. They always sleep together. Everything feels so hazy and far away. This time, he doesn’t stop moving until he’s kneeling over Bruce. The gun isn’t still in his mouth, a small blessing, but Tony can see the broken teeth and gunpowder burns clearly. His eyes are closed, but now it’s impossible to try and envision him sleeping peacefully with all the blood and the general brokenness of the scene. His hand trembles as he presses it to Bruce’s throat, hoping against hope to feel even the slightest beating. 

He doesn’t feel anything.

Belatedly he stares at his gauntleted hands and tries to rip the metal from his palms. He desperately scratches his fingers against the metal trying to tear into the thick coating so he can just touch Bruce one more time, justoncemoreplease, but the shaking has increased too much and, tears running openly down his cheeks, he cradles Bruce’s face in his hands. 

“Come on, Bruce. Don’t do this to me, please. Just wake up, okay? Okay? I’ll do better and we can be happy, I promise just open your eyes.” He’s begging in broken syllables, but all he’s accomplishing is smearing more blood from his torn hands on Bruce’s cheeks. Sobbing quietly, he slumps forward and lays his head on Bruce’s still chest. 

If Tony were religious he would pray. But he knows two Gods and doesn’t feel like any other God has ever taken any sort of interest in the wretched alcoholic life of Tony Stark. Tears seep from the corners of his eyes as he resolves to lay there, hands clenched in the fabric of his lover’s shirt until that crazy bitch puts him out of his misery. Really though, he’s lost all ability to move and the world’s going dark. Apparently this is how much blood a person can lose before dying.

The ground begins slowly moving beneath him, a gentle thudding, slow and irregular. He screws his eyes closed even tighter, if she’s coming for him, he sure as hell doesn’t want to see it. He wills himself to fall unconscious before she can get too close. 

A hand touches his hair, so gentle is makes his heart clench. He tries not to think of it as comforting because how sick is that? That psychopath is obviously playing one last mind game with him. Hadn’t she taken enough? Why couldn’t she just leave him alone? He buries his face harder against Bruce’s chest, trying to escape Artemis’ touch, but to no avail. He gives up with another wet sigh and a wetter cough. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. 

“Tony.” 

He doesn’t respond, even though the soft whisper is like sandpaper inside of his skull. He’s so tired now. Why can’t she just get it over with? Maybe if they hurry he can go where Bruce is. His heart skips a beat as he catches the though, no, he won’t bother Bruce in the afterlife too. He’ll stay as far away as he possibly can. Maybe they can all meet up next time or in the afterlife for a little bit though, just enough time for him to apologize. 

“Tony. Tony come on. You have to be alive. Come on, Tony.” 

The voice is far away now, and suddenly he isn’t so cold. His pillow is warm and his head feels all soft and fuzzy. This isn’t so bad. Why had he been so upset?

“Just be alive, Tony.” The ground pitches beneath him, flinging him backwards and jarring his head as he smacks into the pavement. The pain forces him to crack his eyes open, blinking against the harsh light of reality. 

Well, now he knows he’s in heaven because the Hulk is massive as always, roaring out anguish and pure undiluted rage. 

He closes his eyes and reminds himself it can’t be heaven; it must be that other place.


End file.
